


If We're Friends

by ectoviolet



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Slice of Life, The Nephews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 23:56:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11885562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectoviolet/pseuds/ectoviolet
Summary: Things never seem to go how Donald wants them to. Fortunately, that's not always a bad thing.





	If We're Friends

Donald stares amusedly from the front porch at Launchpad, who has fallen asleep standing up against Scrooge’s limousine. He reaches into his pocket and clicks the button on his keyfob, and his station wagon lets out a friendly  _ honk.  _

Launchpad’s eyes snap open and he immediately stands at attention, as though he wasn’t just snoring loud enough to wake the dead. “Anything I can do ya for, Mr. Duck?” 

Donald snorts, trying to contain his amusement. “No thanks. I was just about to move the car. Scrooge says I’m blocking him in.” He’d come in late last night, and had parked at the opening of the roundabout at the top of the driveway. 

Launchpad turns to assess the car situation. He raises his hands to his eyes like a photographer lining up a shot. “I could get around it,” he assures, after some deliberation. 

Donald looks skeptically at the single-wide driveway and the steep hill that it leads down. “I think he’d prefer you didn’t.” 

“Hey, whatever you say.” 

Moving the car is a simple ordeal, but Donald can’t help but feel awkward doing it while McQuack just stands there watching. After parking in a more suitable place, he leans out his window. “What are you doing out here, anyway?” 

Launchpad shrugs. “I’m on call, Mr. D.” 

Donald turns off his car and steps out, feeling now much more than a little awkward. “You don’t have to call me ‘Mister,’ you know. You don’t work for me, you work for Scrooge.” And it feels kind of weird being called Mister by someone no more than five or six years his junior, anyway. “I’m not your boss. We’re… friends.” Sort of. 

Launchpad lights up. “Well, if we’re friends, what should I call you instead?” 

Donald shrugs. 

“How about Don?” 

“No.” Out of the question.  _ No one  _ calls him Don anymore. 

His voice must have come out harsher than expected, because Launchpad’s always-present grin drops for a second. Then, it comes back bright as ever. “Donnie?” 

Donald closes his eyes. “Sure. Donnie’s fine.” No one has called him Donnie since his parents and his navy buddies, but it doesn’t pull a trigger like his other nickname. 

“Donnie it is, then!” Launchpad beams and leans against the hood of the limo. 

“So when you’re on call, you just wait out here by the car all day?” 

“Yep.” 

“Must get boring.”

“Yep.” 

Donald looked at his watch for a moment. He wasn’t actually checking the time, it was Saturday. He had nowhere to be. “Well, seeya, Launchpad,” he said, and ducked back into the house. 

“Later, Donnie!” called Launchpad, muffled by the closed door.

///

Donald Duck stands over the wreckage of his car, smoldering almost as much as the engine appears to be. It was not a particularly nice car, or one that worked particularly well. But it was  _ his  _ car, and now it is ruined. He turns to his nephews. He takes a deep breath. Counts to ten. Controls his temper. “What happened?” he asks, as evenly as he can manage. 

The three boys speak in near-unison: “He did it!” 

Donald’s gaze follows their collective gesture to none other than Launchpad. 

“Gee, Donnie, I’m real sorry--” 

“Boys,” Donald says, very slowly. “Cover your ears.” 

They slap their hands over their ears obediently. When Donald turns his back, Louie lifts one hand. 

And then, Donald lets loose with every cuss word he knows. Unfortunately for Launchpad, the phrase ‘cursing like a sailor’ is a dreadfully accurate one. It gets to a point where Donald isn’t even swearing  _ at  _ Launchpad, he’s just swearing at the situation. Then he isn’t even swearing, just sort of making noise. Finally, his tantrum grinds to a halt and he holds his head in his hands. “My  _ car,”  _ he groans quietly. 

The boys tentatively remove their hands from their ears. “I’m sure Scrooge can get it fixed, Uncle Donald,” Huey offers lamely. 

“Heck, I could even tow it down to the shop for ya!” Launchpad adds. 

Donald tenses. “I think I’ll just call a truck,” he grinds out. 

Launchpad rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Can I give you a lift up the hill, at least?” 

Donald turns his gaze up toward the mansion. It’s a long way up. A long, long, long… a rather long way. “I’ll walk,” he says stiffly. “I could use the exercise.” That much, at least, is true. He is not the daring adventurer he once was.

“If you’re sure,” Launchpad replies, sounding anything  _ but  _ sure. 

“I’m sure.” When Launchpad ushers the boys off somewhere, Donald stays behind and continues to survey the scene. God, he hopes his insurance will cover for idiocy. “How does a guy wreck a  _ parked car?”  _ Launchpad McQuack will always be something of a mystery.

///

“I’ll just send it to Gearloose. He’ll have it running in two shakes,” Scrooge replies, when Donald informs him of the mess. 

“You’re sending my car to be repaired by a guy named Gearloose?” That seems a little contradictory. “Can’t we just have it taken to a garage?” 

“Why would I send it to a garage when I can send it to a salaried employee who’s already on my payroll?” Scrooge looks positively aghast, as if he’s never thought of such a thing. “Besides, Gyro’s got himself an intern, so I won’t even lose any productivity.” 

“I’m thrilled,” Donald deadpans. He rubs at his forehead for a moment. “What am I supposed to do until it’s fixed?”

“I’ll just lend you Launchpad.” 

“Launchpad is the one who caused this problem!” Donald protests. 

“Well, I’m sure he’s not going to wreck your car  _ again,  _ with it off getting repaired!” Scrooge leans back from Donald’s shouting. “Besides, he’s probably dying for a chance to make it up for you.” 

Donald remembers Launchpad’s attempted apology. He groans out loud and leans on Scrooge’s desk. “Are you sure you don’t have any other drivers hidden around this place?” 

Scrooge chuckles. “Well, I haven’t had Beakley clean out the attic in a while…”

“Maybe I’ll check there.” 

“I’ll tell Launchpad he’ll be driving you about for the next week or so.” 

“Thanks.” 

///

Donald’s been procrastinating on his errands. He’s beginning to run low on just about  _ everything _ . He tells himself he’s not so much avoiding Launchpad as avoiding an accident waiting to happen. Unfortunately, he really needs to get things done, and his car is still very much damaged. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi, Launchpad,” Donald sighs heavily. “Are you at the manor right now?” 

“Just out front.” 

“Good. I need to go to the post office.” 

“Sure thing, Mr. D.” 

Donald frowns. “I thought we talked about that.” 

“Oh, uh, right. Sure thing, Donnie.” There’s a brief scuffling sound, presumably as Launchpad attempts to hang up his phone, and then the call goes silent.

Donald trudges out to the front of the house. Launchpad salutes clumsily when he comes through the front entrance. He quickly strides to the back of the limousine and opens the car door.

Donald cringes inwardly. “You really don’t have to do that,” he says, climbing into the seat. God, how does Scrooge just let people  _ do things for him _ without feeling awkward? 

“Just doing what I’m paid for,” Launchpad replies easily, before making his way back to the front. The car lurches forward and begins its descent to the front gates. “So, where to, again?”

“Post office. Then the grocery store,” Donald answers. 

“Sure, sure. You expecting a package or something?” Launchpad looks over his shoulder, seemingly making it down the long winding driveway with muscle memory alone. 

Donald shakes his head. “I need stamps.” He’s well aware that mailing letters is old-fashioned--his nephews make sure to remind him whenever he does so--but old habits tend to die hard, as they say. 

“Writing letters to Granny Duck?” 

Donald grunts. “My navy buddies.” And to a few old friends from his previous world travels. And maybe to Grandma Duck, too. 

“Man, it’s cool that you were in the Navy,” Launchpad comments, finally turning to look at the road for a moment. He glances in the rearview mirror at Donald. “How long ago was that?” 

Donald wonders if Launchpad is intentionally making him feel old. “I left service a few years before the boys were born.” 

“Ah, yeah. It’s good that you were around for that. I hope I can be there for my sister if she ever has any kids.” Launchpad opens the front gates with a push of a button somewhere on the dashboard. 

Donald nods. “I didn’t know you had a sister.” 

“My family kind of travels around. Never in the same place for too long, you know?” Launchpad shrugs his shoulders. “So we don’t visit much unless we all just happen to be in the same area.” 

“They coming to Duckburg anytime soon?” 

“They’ll call me if they’re flying through, I guess. I think they’ve got an airshow in St. Canard next month, so I’ll probably see them there.” 

Donald whistles under his breath. “Stay safe while you’re there. St. Canard is full of crooks.” 

“Oh, it’s not so bad. I hear the crime rate has been going down since--OH THAT’S A ONE WAY!” 

Donald flinches and covers his eyes, but the crash doesn’t come, thankfully. When he finally peeks through his fingers, they’ve turned onto a different road. “How do you still have a driver’s license?” 

“No one can drive fast enough to pull me over.” 

Donald can’t tell if he’s joking. 

///

Donald climbs back into the car after having purchased a booklet of stamps.

“What kinda stamps you get?” 

Donald holds the booklet up to the partition window. “They’ve got little birds on them.” 

“Neat!” 

Donald snorts. Somehow, he hadn’t expected Launchpad to use that particular turn of phrase. “Well, they’ll get my letters across the country.” 

“I never really mailed letters to anyone. Never had anyone to write to!” Launchpad pulls away from the curb. “To the grocery store, then?” 

“Yep.” 

“My parents never had a stable address,” Launchpad continues his previous thought, “and as a kid I never knew anyone long enough to become pen pals or anything. And nowadays, all my friends are here in Duckburg.” He beams. 

Donald doesn’t have many friends around Duckburg anymore. He was never exactly popular in his youth, and he spent most of his adulthood in service or traveling with Scrooge, and  _ then  _ he had to raise kids. Being a parent, unfortunately, doesn’t leave a ton of room for a social life, outside of the parents of your kids’ friends. “I guess my friends are just sort of all over the place.” 

“Well, as for the city, you’ve got me!” Launchpad declares cheerfully. He pulls, about as smoothly as usual, into the parking lot of the grocery. “Hey, do you mind if I come in with you? I gotta pick up a few things.” 

Donald shrugs. He just hopes shopping with Launchpad won’t take any longer than usual. 

The two of them make their way slowly through the store, filling their baskets with necessities. Launchpad’s groceries are surprisingly sensible: a block of cheese, a carton of juice, a bag of apples, and some bagels. Donald had somehow suspected the guy of living like a college student: entirely on instant noodles and cereal. That thought reminds him: the boys had been complaining that Mrs. B wouldn’t buy anything sweeter than Corn Flakes. Breakfast is somewhere where he tends to be a little more lenient with junk food.

So he and Launchpad make their way to the aisle that has breakfast cereal and porridge mix. Donald scans the brightly-coloured boxes and their cartoon mascots. Which one is it that his nephews like? Finally, he settles on a familiar-looking box with a grinning lion on the front. 

“Never took you for a Sugar Pops kinda guy,” Launchpad comments playfully. 

“It’s for the boys.” Donald drops it into his basket. “If they don’t get their sugar cereal, I can’t get them to eat breakfast at all.” 

Launchpad chuckles. “That sounds like them.” 

Donald appreciates the fondness with which Launchpad speaks of his boys. He’s spent the better part of the last ten years trying to get other people to see what good kids they are. Launchpad just seems to get it. 

As they’re scanning groceries side-by-side at the self checkouts, Donald’s stomach grumbles conspicuously. He checks his watch. It’s way past lunchtime. 

“You hungry?” 

He looks up. “What tipped you off?” 

“I was just thinking, I know this place nearby. They make great sandwiches. We could swing by there on our way back?” Launchpad pauses. “I’ll even treat you, ‘cause I wrecked your car and all.”

Donald thinks about the offer as he attempts to scan a stubborn barcode. When he finally hears the satisfying  _ beep,  _ he nods. “Sure.” So far, the afternoon hasn’t been the torture he built it up as. And he’d have to be stupid to pass up a free lunch. 

///

They walk into a small cafe. It’s a nice place: big windows, nice atmosphere, some local art hanging on the walls, and most importantly it smells delicious. Donald’s stomach growls again.

“Hey, LP!” the guy behind the counter greets. 

Launchpad strides forward to meet him, they shake hands heartily and chat for a few moments. “...my boss’s nephew, Donald. Come up here, Donnie!” Launchpad waves him forward.

Donald meets him at the counter. “Hi.” 

“Hey, nice to meet you. Launchpad’s mentioned you before, I think. You seem like a chill guy.” 

Donald suppresses a bout of laughter. “Thanks.” 

“So, uhh, we’ll get…” Launchpad turns. “Ham and cheese okay with you?” 

Donald is hungry enough to eat his hat. “Sounds great.” 

“Cool. We’ll both get the ham and cheese, and a coffee each.” 

“How do you take it?” the counter-guy asks. 

“Black,” Donald replies.  

“You know how I like it,” Launchpad adds with a wink and finger-pistols. 

“What a cheeseball,” Donald mutters to himself, as Launchpad pays and takes a number. They find a table pretty easily--at this hour it isn’t too crowded--and settle down across from one another. 

Launchpad sets the number at the edge of their table and drums quietly with his hands.

“You must come here a lot,” Donald remarks, just to fill the silence. 

“Ah, yeah, well a buddy of mine, his folks own this place,” Launchpad explains. “I try to support them when I can. Besides, the food is good.” 

“Was that your friend at the counter?” 

“Nah, that’s Todd Grouseman,” Launchpad says, chuckling. “Don’t you think he’s a little young to be a buddy of mine? The kid’s in college.” 

Donald holds up his hands defensively. “The only people I ever see you hanging around are my nephews.” 

Launchpad shrugs. “I mean, I guess I do like kids. I was awful with them before Webby came to live at the manor, though.” He laughs at some private memory. “She’s a good kid. I’m glad she’s getting along with Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Not that I’m not great company, but she could really use some friends her own age.” 

Donald nods. “The boys don’t have many friends either,” he admits. “They always got along best with just each other.” 

There is a brief lull in conversation, but it’s quickly interrupted by that Grouseman kid, with their food. Even though it’s just a grilled ham sandwich, it looks and smells divine. Just as he’s about to dig in, Donald remembers his manners. 

“Hey, thanks for picking up the bill, Launchpad.” 

Launchpad grins. “More like  _ Lunch _ pad, am I right?” 

Donald stares. 

“Get it?  _ Lunch _ pad.” 

“No, yeah, I get it…” 

“‘Cause we’re having lunch.” 

“Yeah.”

///

Late Saturday afternoon, Scrooge finds the ugly wreck of Donald’s car sitting in his usual space. Under one of the windshield wipers is a hastily scrawled note. 

_ Mr. McDuck, _

_ I AM NOT A CAR MECHANIC!!!!  _

_ Yours,  _

_ F.C. Cabera.  _

“Who on God’s green Earth is F.C. Cabera…” Scrooge mutters. He sighs, pulling out his phone. He’ll have to send the damn thing to the garage. But first, he’ll have to call Donald. He dials and waits for the answer. 

“Hello?” 

“Donald! It seems we’ve hit a bit of a hiccup in having your car repaired.” He waits patiently through Donald’s pained groan. “Fear not! I’ll gladly loan you Launchpad for another week.” He holds his phone at arm’s length, prepared for a tantrum. 

Muffled by the distance, all he hears is, “Okay.” 

Scrooge brings the phone back to his ear. “Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Donald pauses. “Unless Mrs. B found anything cleaning out the attic.” 

“Afraid not.”

“Didn’t think so.” 


End file.
